The Confessions of RoboSam
by crazybeagle
Summary: It's weird. He won't even look at me anymore. I'm not used to that. And the thing is, I know it should bother me. But it doesn't, not really... Post 6.7.


**The Confessions of Robo-Sam**

_**Set after 6.7. My speculations as to what "Sam" must be thinking at this point.**_

_**And don't kill me for writing more Supernatural, Dee. I couldn't help it. :D**_

It's weird. He won't even look at me anymore.

I'm not used to that.

And the thing is, I know it should bother me.

…But it doesn't, not really. Hell, it makes things go faster, when we just shut up and do what needs to be done.

Well that's not true, technically—sometimes he does look at me, and he doesn't even bother to not to do it openly. And the looks I get… It's loathing. Pure and simple.

And you'd think I'd care. But honestly?

It's just tedious. Usually I'll just stare right back—_are you done yet?_—until he's had his fill and gives it up. He usually does pretty fast, and then turns away. And then he won't talk to me for hours afterward.

Disgust. That's what it is.

I knew it from the very first night after he found out about me, and Crowley, and Samuel, and everything. He went out on his own, locking the motel door behind him and telling me I wasn't allowed to leave—as if he could really stop me—and he didn't get back until three in the morning, completely hammered. The only words I got out of him that night were a slurred, mumbled "stay away from me," and once or twice, "you're not my brother." And then he flopped down and slept on top of the covers. We didn't talk at all for three days after that.

_You're not my brother._

And I'm not, really.

Am I?

I mean, being down a soul's a problem, sure…

Okay, a _huge _problem, I concede.

But it's me, right?

It's gotta be, to some degree, otherwise I wouldn't be walking and talking. Unless I'm on some sort of human autopilot or something… Just a body and a brain. That could work, I guess.

But then how would I be—I don't know how to put this—_aware_? Or remember…well, everything?

And I mean _everything_.

The cage.

That was actually when the first warning flag went off in my head, that something was up with me.

The stuff that happened to me in there was stuff that no sane person, no _human being_, should be able to withstand without needing a one-way ticket to some cozy rubber room somewhere, some friendly doctors with syringes full of tranquilizers, and a strait jacket.

And I know it. Objectively, I do know it.

But the thing is, when I woke up in that cemetery, I honestly just walked away thinking, _Well that's that. Moving on…_

And I did. Well, at least this part of me did. Dean asked a few times about it early on, but I told him I couldn't talk about it, because he'd probably have a brain aneurism if I tried to explain it to him, which again would be tedious, not to mention needlessly distracting to him. And I know he'd flip a shit if he figured out that I really, honestly, couldn't care less about my stint in Hell.

And now that I know that I…or, uh, Sam—damn, I don't even know anymore—is still stuck down there, it's not like I'm going to spill my guts to him about…well, getting my guts spilled. Over and over. Hell, it'll probably just make him hate me more, knowing that _I'm _up here and that _Sam _is still down there. Not a good thing when we're supposed to be working together.

And he's horrified as is. That first night when he came back sloshed, for example. Now as a general rule, Dean doesn't cry. Ever. But that night his eyes were red. And if I'm still—if _Sam _is still down there, then I get it. I do. Because that means his brother is still dead. Worse than dead.

But at the same time… _Really. I'm RIGHT HERE, dude. So suck it up._

Well some of me, anyway. _So deal with it..._

And that's the other weird thing, because as much as he hates me, he still has these weird moments of neurotic protectiveness.

We've been doing exactly what Crowley wants us to do, which means that in the weeks since we found out about his little plan, we've been chasing leads that I've been taking over the phone from Samuel all over the country looking for the Alphas. We haven't bagged any yet, but we've been led on a few wild goose chases, one of which ended pretty messy. Well, for me anyway. A hunt for the Alpha wendigo gone south. It wasn't that bad, or at least I didn't think so, but I got sort of cut up and lost a lot of blood in the process. And Dean, the same Dean who swears up and down that _I _am not his brother, completely freaked, and wouldn't listen when I kept telling him I'd be fine and to lay off.

But no, he insisted on keeping us holed up in the same motel for two weeks straight, stitching me up himself, watching me like a hawk, and drugging me so that I'd get some rest.

But what he doesn't know is that even drugged, even "unconscious," rest doesn't happen for me.

So I heard everything he said to me when he thought I was out cold.

"Damn it, Sammy… I'm gonna fix this, I promise. Me and you—well, uh, I mean, me and Commander Spock here, we'll fix it. I'm gonna get you back." A strained chuckle. "Provided your drone doesn't get you killed first, 'cause I'll tell ya, he's not doin' so hot right now."

I wanted to open my eyes and inform him that I was doing just fine and to stop being ridiculous, but I didn't have the energy for the inevitable fight that would follow. Besides, it was then that I figured out why he was still so paranoid about my safety. If I died, he would never get Sam back. And he never ceased to remind me about that while I was healing, berating me for not being careful enough— "Geez, do you even _want _your soul back?"

My automatic response was "yes." Just like it had been all along. If for no other reason, it's tiresome getting nothing out of him except revulsion and mistrust.

Not that it's undeserved.

And for Dean's sake, too, because he's clearly going to be anything but okay until he gets his brother—his real brother—back.

But do I want it? As in, really, truly want it?

Hunting is so much easier now. No fear. No anything.

And I'm helping people. A lot more people than before.

So being "the walking dead," as Dean puts it, has got to count for something, right?

But the problem with being the walking dead?

You don't care that you don't care. So I can't say I miss it all that much, being the way I was before.

And I've been thinking about that—the way I was before. If _Sam _comes back, after spending over a year down there, then there is no way, not a chance, that he's not going to be completely, utterly, royally, permanently fucked up. Spending a few short weeks there was enough to tell me that. Hell, if I'd come back with my soul, I'd have been a terrified, blubbering, pathetic excuse for a human being, I know it. You could just forget about me trying to function like a normal human being ever again, let alone hunt. But I wasn't like that, and that's what told me something was wrong with me in the first place.

So yeah. "Sam" will be an irredeemable wreck, to say the least. Dean will be lucky if Sam—I—even recognize him.

But hey, it's what Dean wants, right?

So I guess it's what I want, too.

I'll humor him.

_**End. **_


End file.
